


The Truth Can Be Found (at the bottom of a bottle)

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Multi, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had their own hotel rooms. Why they were in Illya's, he'd never know.</p><p>He's also not going to kick them out, not when they brought such good vodka with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth Can Be Found (at the bottom of a bottle)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elanorofcastile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorofcastile/gifts).



“Your turn.”

It was Gaby who spoke, splayed out on her back between the two of them, all of them sitting on the plush carpet. Napoleon was leaning against the armchair, Illya sitting with his legs crossed, his shoes sitting at the base of the bed. He’d been getting ready for bed, so he was in his dressing robe. Napoleon and Gaby were both more appropriately dressed than he was, though Gaby’s sundress had fallen higher than Illya had ever seen on someone not a prostitute, and Napoleon had unbuttoned his shirt and Illya was trying not to stare too obviously at the hard planes of Napoleon’s chest.

“Your turn, Peril,” Napoleon repeated.

Illya blinked, and when he realized just how long it took him to blink, figured he was a little more drunk than he had expected. Of course, they were, the three of them, cooped up in a hotel room in Hong Kong. They had each had their own room as they completed their three separate missions, but now they were just waiting to be picked up. They had nothing to do, so they had all converged on Illya’s room and brought three bottles of vodka.

There was only one bottle left, now, and Napoleon had already opened it and took a swig from it. Now, he held it out to Illya, smiling a soft smile that seemed to warm Illya deep in his chest.

With a sigh, Illya leaned over Gaby to take it and nearly overbalanced. As it was, he spilled some over Gaby’s head.

Illya clumsily grabbed a napkin and tried to pat her dry, and she looked up indignantly at him as he tried to not poke her in the eye.

“You need to apologize,” she said regally, and Illya blushed a little at her tone.

Napoleon nodded vigorously. “You really should. What would you have him do, Gaby?”

“Kiss me,” she commanded imperiously.

He froze, and Napoleon’s face did some complicated motion that Illya couldn’t understand. But he shrugged, more drunk than he should be, and leaned down. The kiss was awkward, mostly because of the angle and because the two of them were very drunk, but when he pulled back he could still feel the softness of her lips, those slim fingers cupped around his jaw, the wetness of her tongue.

Then, she tugged at Napoleon’s shirt, startling Illya. “Now kiss him,” she commanded.

Illya stared askance at her, and then at Napoleon – and, now that he was studying Napoleon, he realized the other man’s cheeks were dusted with a blush, his eyes downcast. “But—” he began.

Again, Napoleon’s face did something strange that Illya was too drunk to decipher, and from the ground Gaby pouted. “You do not want to?” she asked.

He was too drunk (it was a refrain going through his mind, over and over, at this point, unending) to do anything but be honest. “I do,” he said, almost desperately. “But it is not right.”

“It is if you want to,” Gaby replied, and tugged Napoleon closer. “Kiss him, Illya.”

It was – a car crash, a disaster, a train wreck, a miracle – their lips brushed, and Illya found himself gasping into Napoleon’s mouth, feeling both firmness and give, the taste of vodka and a cigarette chasing Illya’s tongue, stubble and something more, something _good_. Then Napoleon was pulling back, wrenching a small noise of complaint from Illya’s throat.

“Now, we cuddle in bed together. Up, Napoleon. Up, Illya. Help me get up,” Gaby commanded the two of them, and Illya did nothing except obey, stumbling drunkenly to his feet and nearly tipping over onto the two of them. Somehow, they made their way to the bed, Napoleon undoing his dress shirt and leaving him in his undershirt alone, Gaby peeling off her dress – Illya tried not to stare – and his robe falling to the ground to reveal his broad chest, his soft pajama pants.

That was the first time they shared a bed together, Gaby curled on one side of Illya and Napoleon on the other, but it would not be the last.


End file.
